Ephemeral
by lparrilla
Summary: "I just don't get why you wanna mess it all up. We have a system," James says, standing a few feet away from the bed and refusing to sit down like a child refusing to go to bed because it's still early. A collection of unconnected Lost shorts.
1. One

**#1**

**_S_**he had been the other woman. She was never really anything to Edmund and although, Goodwin might have felt something for her, they were just a tryst and nothing more. Jack always had Kate in mind and she served, perhaps, as a pleasant distraction.

She was _always _the other woman, in fact. Being someone's number one wasn't a feeling she knew. _Isn't _she corrects herself. It _isn't _a feeling she knows. Sure, warm thoughts occasionally found their way into her mind through the tiny cracks that exposed themselves when she was with him, touching him, breathing him, but when she'd come down from her elation she always made sure to chase them away.

There was no room for such wishful thoughts yet she couldn't help the persistent hunger for those moments. She'd feed the hunger, let the cracks come undone, and drown herself in the bliss through each brush of their skin against each other, each kiss they shared together. She was often desperate though she hid it well under a mask of indifference and for a long while it was enough to keep the nasty thoughts at bay until it just wasn't. The hunger grew greedy and somewhere deep inside she knew it would never be satisfied. What was there within her reach, what she felt with her fingertips, as beautiful as it is, was not enough. _She _would never be enough_._

Though she didn't know it at the time, the thought ate away at her slowly, aggressively until it unhinged her. The single stem of yellow flower that she had received from him was both delightfully and depressingly an appropriate representation of what she shared with him. Flowers were demanding. They take time and effort and care but with persistence, they bloom into something exquisite indeed. That allure, however, doesn't last. In time they would bend and wilt and decay until they once again became part of the ground.

They too died.

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**AN**:I've finished writing a few shorts and am working on multiple at the same time. This is the shortest one I've written, the others will be longer I promise! I'll be uploading them gradually as I continue writing. I hope you enjoy reading them! Please leave a review if you enjoyed it, please also leave a review if you didn't and perhaps elaborate why :D


	2. Four

**#4**

_**H**_e was hungry.

Okay, he wasn't really starving but it was four o'clock and his mom was still making dinner so it will take a while before anything comes anywhere near his mouth. He walks towards the kitchen quietly and sits himself on the seat by the counter, as silently as humanly possible anyway. His short four year old hands reach towards the nearest jar to his right and unscrews the lid slowly and quietly and slowly until the jar opens soundlessly.

"What do you think you're doing?" His mother asks, in that mysterious, cool voice she always uses, her back still facing him as she washes some vegetables over the sink, her long blonde hair swaying lightly as she moves.

When she finally faces the little daredevil she tries so, so hard not to laugh and keep that stern motherly gaze on him. He's frozen now, doesn't move an inch, mouth slightly open, hand in the jar, fingers not quite long enough to even graze the top cookie. "I'm hungry," he croaks.

"You know you're not allowed to have a cookie before dinner." Her hands are crossed in front of her now.

"But, mom–" he complains. He knows it's pointless to protest but he does anyway even though his hand is well out of the jar now.

She walks over, screws back the lid in place and slides the cookie jar back to its original place. Leaning on the counter, she says, "Dinner's going to be ready in an hour, go finish your homework and it should be done when you are."

He grunts and slumps in his seat, then swivels the chair and leaves to do just that. A while later, when he's doing his homework in the living room on the coffee table (because he finds soothing melody in the sounds coming from the kitchen), his dad comes striding in and sits on the couch next to him, turning on the television before them. He looks at the older man, face scrunched up in question.

His dad looks towards the kitchen warily, a secretive expression on his face, and whispers, "Here you go, buddy." He has a piece of cookie, chocolate chip, wrapped with tissue in his hand, and hands it to the little guy. He lowers his voice further as he says, "Don't go tellin' your mom I gave it to you, okay?" Accepting it gratefully, he whispers a thank you and bites as the sound of his chewing is muted by the television.

Juliet pretends she doesn't know anything.

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**AN**: This one was inspired by a prompt on Tumblr. It was one of those OTP text posts and this one was about if your OTP had a kid who would be the one to sneak their kid a cookie after the other parent said no. I hope you enjoyed reading! Review if you liked/disliked it? :)


	3. Two

**AN: **Special thank you to emerson023 for writing the nicest, most encouraging reviews, I am so grateful. Thank you as well to everyone else who left reviews/read the shorts so far, I hope you all enjoy reading this one as well :)

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**#2**

**_J_**uliet was aware of her quiescence.

She knew how it poked and prodded him like sharp thorns that traveled down his throat, how it burned him from the inside until he became unhinged, unscrewed, and disassembled. She was opaque in his world of colors and whenever he felt her coming apart, becoming more transparent and less elusive, he would find that he was wrong.

He couldn't stand the quietness. He'd hear distant whispers and voices, not loud enough to discern what they were saying yet not so quiet to ignore. In time he realised it was his own voice that was beckoning, his own voice that kept nagging at him, trying to get his attention, and often it would meld with his father's, littered with hints of judgment and disappointment. His voice, at times, wasn't even his. It unnerved him, caused him to feel the need to fill in any emptiness where silence fell so that there were no blank spaces and only spaces that are no longer blank which left no room for the whispers. It muted the ghost of a voice playing like an endless record in the back of his mind with the throaty one that had a physical voice he could hear was his own. Ever since, he would find the euphony in noise.

Juliet's voicelessness was, hence, cacophony in contrast. The silence drilled into him, caused the distant whispers to spill out and start shouting words meant to ail. Husband and wife they were, yet the two were more like two sides of a glass, never quite touching despite the same reflection, always so distantly close, just barely out of touch. It became apparent then why he never quite had her back as they stood on opposite sides, detached from each other. They were empty shells of one another that were once effervescent, once ebullient and full of life until the life wilted from them. Trailing behind on departure's path not too far away was her voice, leaving to show how the fight was no longer in her. Around the time she had started remaining silent, and the time she discovered how it drove him absolutely insane, she realised she had lost the love as well. They struggled so hard to find a way to be the anchors of their relationship that they'd forgotten _why _they were trying in the first place to the point that they could no longer recall the reason no matter how hard they tried so she had conceded and given up on trying to repair what's beyond saving while he was transfixed on trying to save what he couldn't.

At times, much like this one, they'd just be too exhausted to fight, words not reaching one another so they'd use their touch to make sure the other was still present, still there with them, but no matter how close, no matter how pressed up against each other they were, or how much they'd explored each other, they would never really find each other in the dark. The warmth in their touch felt cold, the pleasure they used to find was lost, and their minds tried to empty, to remove itself to no avail. It didn't stop them though, only fueled them further. A gentle graze of the skin turned to desperate grasps trying to grab hold of each other as they're slipping and slipping from the other's hold as they come and come again until they're washed up on their bed and slowly dragged into slumber.

When she wakes beside him the next morning her fingers play with the ring on her finger, turning it mindlessly as she watches him breathe. For a reason she can't say, she could hear a small voice in the back of her mind with a stubborn thought; it was less so like his susurrus and more akin to a knowing presence voicing a truth and it only told her one thing.

One day she would die and Jack would be the reason why.


	4. Eight

**AN: **I wrote this when Ingrid in Once Upon a Time (played by Elizabeth Mitchell) died and thought hmmm what about James dealing with Juliet's death? So this is something like a eulogy? Enjoy?

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**#8**

**_I_**'ve been alone most of my life; always running, searching. But for three years I wasn't because I had someone by my side, and that someone was Juliet. The first time I saw her it was like we were standing on opposite sides. I was in a cage, turned around in circles, and although she was on the outside, she was trapped too. In a much bigger cage of a grander scale. I can't tell you when exactly we found each other through the gaps between the bars nor can I tell you the exact moment I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. Partly because I can't tell you her side of the story since it's not my story to tell but also because she will never know the answer to the second part so why should anyone else?

Juliet was special. She had many gifts and they made her special and being special, she used to say, made her feel isolated. Despite that she tried, again and again, loss after loss, because people believed in her and relied on her even when she didn't. But those losses... She never really forgave herself for those. I think she never stopped punishing herself for them, never thought she was enough but goddamnit, she was, she was _more_ than enough and it pains me that she never got to see that. That _I _never got to show her just how...

She was, _is_, special to me. But it isn't because of all those things that people isolated her for. It's because of the way she wanted to leave more than anything in the world but when the chance came, she made sure others could leave first. The way she wanted to help people even when she should have helped herself, tried to save a man who was already gone despite circumstances as absurd as flaming arrows. It's the way she wanted to give, in her words, good news to people because she thrived from others' happiness. What made her special was the fact that she gave her life and everything that came with it, for anyone but herself and inspired the people around her to do the same.

Because that's the kind of person she was. When someone asks for two weeks, she gives them three years.

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**AN: **Ĭt's really short and not the best so let me know if you liked/hated it!


	5. Nineteen

**#19**

She tried her best to bury her voice deep down her throat so she wouldn't scream.

Unfortunately for her, the pain seared through her lower back and burned and burned and burned again. She let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, gasping for air, unable to keep her mouth shut. She knows otherwise but hopes anyway that the air will somehow cool the burn. The pain doesn't stop, relentless and unforgiving. It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_.

There's a voice ringing in her ears now, it's loud, it's really loud and strained. Was it hers? It sure doesn't sound like hers. She doesn't even have the strength to cry out anymore. It's still screaming, still pained. Actually, maybe it is her voice. That's probably where all the fight in her went. Her arms grow limp against the cold surface where Jack once stood tall, yanking a chain that would never come loose. The steel pressing against her lower back still burns into her skin. She blinks away the clouds in her eyes and feels sweat trailing down her forehead. There is no way she can move her arm up to wipe it away.

The ghost of the burning stick still presses up against her (it may never leave) but she hears footsteps and finds movement behind her. Mark, a friend of Goodwin's once upon a time who she's only crossed paths with a handful of times, moves to examine the skin on her back and if he wasn't the one responsible for putting the damn thing there in the first place she would nicely wave his efforts off. Now she just wants him to get the hell away from her. She knows it's not quite his fault, knows he's just the man receiving the orders, knows he doesn't, didn't, and never had a choice but it doesn't make it any better. More than anyone she knows this is much preferable than the alternative (or, wait, is it really? At least she wouldn't be in this godforsaken rock anymore. The thought of Rachel and Julian always brings her back though. They're the reason she still roams around like a ghost on the island, doing things she wishes she could stop doing. Rachel and Julian, Rachel and Julian, she can't die here, she can't die now. She has to go back. She finally decides it is definitely better than the alternative) but it doesn't make it any less painful or the whole situation any less crappy.

When Mark leaves her side, she tells herself to move. Her fingers feel stiff and weak as she pushes herself off. The pain causes her to cringe, threatens to make her collapse again but she doesn't let it. It takes her longer than usual to stand up straight and grunts escape her lips despite her lame efforts to stay silent. The bags under her eyes are more prominent now as her skin is pale and almost translucent. It's over. Only it's not.

It never will be.

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AN: Thank you so much to everyone who reads this silly compilation of shorts! I was thinking I won't update anymore but then I saw someone (inthissleeplessness) on Tumblr listed this as one of their favorite Suliet fics and wow, I was so blown away because it's listed with my favorite Suliet fics written by makealist and tia8206 on here so thank you so much to Tumblr user inthissleeplessness! Also special thank you to Monica for being the most supportive and encouraging reader I could ever ask for :')


	6. Twenty One

**AN: Okay so I thought no one would pay attention to the numbers at the top anyway but I was clearly mistaken. I'll clear it up now: they're irrelevant to the story, it's just the order of the short, so this is actually the 21st short I've written. This one is really, really short but only because it's fluff haha. Since eyeon wanted something happy, here you go!**

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**#21**

**_"Y_**ou're messin' with the status quo."

"And you're being overly dramatic."

"I just don't get why you wanna mess it all up. We have a _system_," James says, standing a few feet away from the bed and refusing to sit down like a child refusing to go to bed because it's still early.

"If we have a system, James, this is the first I've heard of it."

"Yeah well, it ain't my fault you didn't get the memo."

"Would you _please _just come here?"

He stalks over to his side of the bed, brows furrowed in that way she's come to find endearing, and half sits on the bed, half hangs over the edge. He looks at her, grumpy, and honestly, he's not even sure why he's so adamant about this. Maybe it's just that he likes what they already have going on, maybe it something else entirely.

"Are you going to be grumpy all night or are you going to let me have this?" Seeing his still unwilling expression, Juliet adds, "Just for tonight. That's all I'm asking."

He sighs and falls into his pillow, lying on his right side and facing the end table where their copy of To Kill a Mockingbird is perched by the lamp. He feels her move behind him, the bed sinking as she does, and after she pulls the blanket over the both of them, she presses herself up against him and wraps her arms around his chest. He immediately forgets why he ever protested against this in the first place.

The next morning when their room is bathed in yellow sunlight, she asks him through squinty, sleepy eyes if he slept well. He pretends he didn't, says his right arm aches from the discomfort, but he's lying when he implies he doesn't like being the little spoon and she knows because the following night when he turns in early, he pretends to be asleep so she can press up against him from behind just like the night before.

She hasn't stopped being the big spoon since.


	7. Twenty Three

**#23**

**_S_**he'd started singing to herself the day after she said goodbye.

The house wasn't usually lively before but it had never been quite so silent either. Somehow she would hear ringing in the silence and feel how especially hollow everything had become. She'd turn on music, figured that all those classics which filled a whole shelf with rows and rows of CD cases beside vintage vinyls and the very scarce but growing DVD corner, shouldn't just gather dust. She'd start from one corner of the shelf and play one CD a day until she reached the other edge, then she'd start over again. She'd skip that one song her sister used to play on repeat, though. The lyrics and the melody just hit way too close to home. It went on for years even though the apartment was plenty lively by then.

Then that beautiful, horrible day she had the baby in her arms for the first time, she couldn't stop crying. Partly because holy crap, he's in her arms so tiny and curled up, wriggling in place, _look at how small he is_. Partly also because there was no one else there to look at him other than her, she was alone alone alone but not quite anymore; little Julian was there even though someone else wasn't.

She cried and cried for days, weeks, months after for everything she didn't allow herself to cry for before. Some stubborn, hopeful, and perhaps naive part of her still believed that one of these days she'd get a call from her sister who'd be crying and apologizing for being absent the past year, for not being here during those times she really needed her. Part of her knew better. She didn't let herself give up though, couldn't do that yet, wouldn't admit it.

One night when she was particularly lost after Julian had thrown a fit, she stroked his forehead gently as he slept and whispered a promise to the air. She promised that she'll wait no matter how long it would take for her return. Through tears, she also threatened to kick her ass for taking so goddamn long to come back. She knows she can't hear her wherever she is but she tells her she misses her anyway.

One afternoon in late 2005, she felt someone watching her as she secured Julian in the backseat outside their apartment building. Across the street she sees someone familiar looking at her, a bottle in his hand. His shoulders sagged as he stood and she struggled connecting a name to this familiar face. Then it hit her. He was one of those survivors from that Oceanic Six, a doctor if she remembered correctly. What was he doing in Miami? His eyes turn to Julian then and he takes a long swig from his bottle. She moved over to shield the little boy from the strange man before asking if she could help him. His face crumbled, anguish washing over. He shook his head, apologised, and walked away.

She never saw him again.

**(EXTRA - FLASHFORWARD)**

Julian steps into the storage room, hauling boxes out, when he comes across an unlabelled one in the corner. He opens it, finds old clothes that his mother would have never worn in a million years, a stack of paperbacks, among which was a book entitled Carrie, and a framed photograph of a woman he recognises but never knew. He puts it back into the box and stacks it along with the other boxes outside.

When he arrives in his new house, he finds that box again, takes out that picture of his aunt, and sets it on the counter beside the picture of his late mother.

He hopes they managed to find each other somehow.

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**AN: I hope everyone has a nice day, thank you again for reading! :**


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